It was a cold day for a swim, but I swam anyway

All rivers lead to the ocean.
Raindrops trickle down mountain sides,
seep through cracks in rock walls,
pour into valleys and are carried away.
Empty into a great lake,
and then into another,
and slowly out to sea.

Picked up into clouds and carried over land,
and either in a shower or the morning dew or a thunderstorm,
the droplets hit the earth again.

There is a place we could have gone today,
the edge of a blue meadow, a specific shoreline,
the number of paces marked somewhere I can’t remember.

Instead we went to the lake round the corner, and I swam across to the other side.
Then swam back.

He sure did love to swim.

I like to think that the water from the blue meadow is here, now.
Washed across my forehead,
dripping off the tip of my lips
and pooled in the curve of my neck.

And a storm rolls in,
and the water droplets fade,
and my skin is dry again.